


Tough To Swallow

by ToiletPaperPrincess



Series: Miscellaneous Fics [11]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Food, Friendship, Gen, Humor, post-Buu/pre-Super
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:52:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToiletPaperPrincess/pseuds/ToiletPaperPrincess
Summary: Mr. Satan will do anything to protect his fragile reputation as the strongest man in the world.  Goku is hungry.  Chi-Chi just found a way to lower her grocery bill.





	Tough To Swallow

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally just going to be a quick, cute scene of Mr. Satan trying to buy off Goku with a meal and accidentally bonding with him (because the more I thought about it the more convinced I was that they'd make good friends if only everyone in Dragon Ball wasn't antisocial/socially inept XD ), but as I was writing I just kept having thoughts like "Oh what if THIS", "Oh what if I wrote in a scene with THIS character just for fun", "Oh wait what if I followed THIS thread", and it became a big sprawling mess that I had a lot of fun wrangling and tidying up. It's been way too long since I wrote something purely silly like this.
> 
> P.S. I cannot believe I finally wrote an actual story with King Kai in it and not ONE of the (too) many puns was actually uttered by him

For weeks every television, newspaper, magazine—any medium capable of showing an image—had had Mr. Satan all over it. That classic pose, two fists thrust triumphantly into the air. Maybe a few with his hands on his hips or his arms crossed, just for variety. But always with that gleaming smile. The cocked eyebrow inviting a challenge that, implicitly, the challenger had already lost. Unshakeable confidence. Pride. This was the man who had saved the world twice over, this time from a foe so terrible that humanity suffered collective nightmares about their deaths at its hands.

Now he was flat on his face in a deep bow that teetered between humility and pleading.

If only the paparazzi could see him now.

“I am so, _so_ sorry it took me so long to drop by,” he whimpered, though of course with him it came out more like a bellow. “They jus’ wouldn’t stop _houndin_ ’ me—interviews day an’ night, couldn’t hardly turn around without trippin’ over another photographer—I damn near sat on one once—and o’course, I had to keep an eye on our recognizable, eh, _friend_ here—”

Majin Buu was ambling lazily across the Son family’s lawn, following a butterfly. He had already shed the thick scarf and sweater used to disguise him, with squeaky complaints that he was too hot. (The comically oversized derby remained, for now, atop his head.) Mr. Satan was wearing a trenchcoat and heart-shaped sunglasses. He’d even driven out to Mt. Paozu in a rented car.

“Need a hand there?” Goku inquired, stepping forward. He blinked down at the prone man. “If ya can’t get up—”

“Goku, it’s a sign of respect.”

Chi-Chi was smirking openly. She still had a bit of the tyrannical Ox Princess in her.  


“O-oh yes, an’ I _do_ respect you! A whole bunch! More’n anyone I know, an’ that’s th’ honest truth, swear to God!”

Goku’s gaze instinctively flicked toward the Lookout.

“Tha’s why I...uh...I mean...that is...”

Chi-Chi had to resist the urge to put her boot on his head and demand he speak up. Even so, her smile widened. Goku just stared.

“Ya sure y’don’t need a hand?”

“Naw, naw, man, I’m fine! I...”

Mr. Satan fumbled around on the ground for a bit, finally rose to his knees, glanced about him, then scampered off to the car. Goku and Chi-Chi watched as he tore up the seats, muttering (screaming) to himself, before turning and shouting. “Buu! Buu, eh, _buddy_ , wasn’ it on yer lap??”

“Ooh?” Buu tore his gaze from the butterfly. It seized its chance to escape. “The big graham cracker?”

“ ‘Big graham crack’—?? _BUU!_ DID YOU _EAT_ —?!?”

“Only a li’l.”

“ _BUU!!!_ ”

After a bit of panicky bluster and gagging, a saliva-drenched graham crack—that is—a saliva-drenched _briefcase_ was produced. Mr. Satan tried frantically to dry it off with his sleeve, gave up, and finally just struggled with the clasp. It was bent out of shape from its ordeal, and after a while Buu was asked to just tear the case open.

“I know it’s not much,” Mr. Satan wheezed apologetically, “but—well—I c’d only get so much from the bank at once without ’em askin’ any sticky questions—on top o’ which I owed that blonde number-name chick fer the tournament—”

“Oh, Mr. Satan, we could _never_ ,” gasped Chi-Chi, snatching the battered briefcase from his hands. She was already rifling through the stacks of soggy cash, too entranced to try to start a count. “Really. This is _far_ too generous. Oh. My goodness. But I suppose it’s really the least you could do. After all...”

“Yeh, yeh, I know!” Now Mr. Satan was sprawled on the ground again. “I keep windin’ up with the credit for yer actions, I know, it’s awf’ly shameful—but fame ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, y’know, it really don’t seem like it’d suit you at all—so I was jus’ thinkin’—I mean—thank you _so damn much_ —th-th-that is—thank you _so much_ for yer discretion in this matter—not tellin’ anyone an’ all—I really do appreciate it, all that’d do at this point ’d be to cause a mess—no one’d benefit from that, an’ I truly mean it—and oh, uh, thank you an’ yours for savin’ the world in the first place, heh heh, I guess that mos’ obvious one slipped my mind—”

Goku wasn’t listening. “Is that a lot, Chi-Chi?”

“Mm-hmm!” But her face suddenly fell. Maybe she _had_ managed to count it after all. “Though...between the boys’ college expenses...and now we’ve got _your_ mouth to feed, too... _and don’t think I’ll just_ forget _about your promise to get a job._ ”

“—an’ for lettin’ Buu, tha’ is, _this_ Buu live—thank you, thank you, thank you—he really is a good boy, or anyhow, I’ll make sure he becomes a good boy—he was jus’ like a child playin’ rough with his toys, y’know, didn’t have no sense of th’ sanctity o’ life an’ all that—but I’m teachin’ ’im, sure—you c’n _count_ on that—”

“B-but what about your dad’s treasure?”

“I told you, he stopped taxing the villagers years ago. He’s just a retired old grandpa now. Doesn’t even interfere in the local government. I mean...if he sold the castle...but I couldn’t ask him to do that, he loves the old place...”

“—so what I guess I’m tryin’ to say is, this’s jus’ a down payment for now, I can bring ya some more later if ya—b-but please, if there’s anythin’ y’ever need, jus’ lemme know! I’ll be happy t’ oblige! Anythin’ I can do for y—”

“ _Buu hungry_.”

All chatter ceased.

Buu stood petulantly in the center of the group, brow ridge furrowed, arms crossed. The oversized derby was no more.

“Y’ate in the car,” Mr. Satan hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Mr. Satan made Buu spit it back out.”

“Tha—? Naw, Buu, not the ‘graham cracker’, I was talkin’ about the pastri—”

A stomach grumbled. It wasn’t Buu’s.

“Eheh...” Goku grinned, embarrassed. “ ‘Goku hungry’, too, I guess.”

“Oh...?”

Chi-Chi’s eyes lit up.

“You know, Mr. Satan,” she said sweetly, because she _was_ still the tyrannical Ox Princess, “I think there _is_ something you can do for him...”

\---

Mr. Satan had thought he was getting off easy.

This Goku guy had saved the whole world—maybe even the whole goddamn _universe_ —and he was happy just to be taken out to lunch? Mr. Satan had had to stifle an incredulous giggle when Chi-Chi had suggested it. Goku’s “Okay, but I guess I should warn you, folks say I’m a big eater” had made the World Champ laugh out loud. “Big eater”, sure. Mr. Satan had been feeding _Majin Buu!_ Compared to that, this guy would be a piece of cake!

...He should’ve just stuck with the hush money.

In terms of capacity, Buu and Goku were pretty evenly matched. But Buu’s appetite leaned more toward, well, pieces of cake. And he tended to prefer cheap convenience store sweets rather than gourmet delicacies. So while the quantity was enormous, the price per item was low, and in terms of Mr. Satan’s lavish budget it barely counted as more than petty cash.

Goku liked _meat_.

He liked...a _lot_...of _meat_.

That first lunch—taken at that new barbecue place uptown because oh what a _fool_ Mr. Satan had been—completely maxed out his credit card. And _even then_ Goku only stopped eating because the kitchen _ran out of food_. He was still patting his stomach and wistfully rambling about ice cream as they left.

The gossip rags had a field day. _“World Champ Sponsors Impromptu Eating Contest??”_ was probably the least unflattering headline. (Luckily Buu had stayed in his backup disguise—Mr. Satan’s trenchcoat and sunglasses—so although everyone noticed his appetite, it didn’t seem like anyone had managed to recognize him.)

But Mr. Satan’s heart _really_ dropped when he got home to a message from his secretary. The secretary hadn’t been sure what it meant, but said a woman had called, sounding very sweet and gracious, thanking Mr. Satan for feeding her husband and that he was very much looking forward to their next meal.

And it wasn’t like Mr. Satan could say _no_. The threat of exposure...the genuine fear of what this powerful, powerful man could do to him if he didn’t keep him happy...

When he tried to bemoan his troubles to Videl, she just reminded him of how much he’d profited off the Son family’s deeds and told him he was getting his “just _desserts_ ”. And then she giggled. She’d been doing that a lot more lately. Mr. Satan suspected he had Goku and his weird little group to thank for that, too. And ultimately that was worth even more than his glory as World Champion, so he sucked it up and penciled Goku in for Thursday.

The fact that he’d been offered sponsorship deals from several packaged meat brands softened the blow, at least.

\---

“Geefh,” Goku mumbled through a mouthful of steak, “yer alff— _al_ ways on edge, huh?” Swallow. “Being famous must be real tough.”

Mr. Satan jumped. He’d been wringing his hands and hovering around Goku as usual, asking if he could get him anything, a napkin, another plate, a glass of water, offering to dim the lights if it was too bright for his eyes. Not so much because he was scared of reprisal—he’d spent so much time with Goku the past month that he’d finally accepted Goku’s easygoing nature as genuine—but thinking about the expensive meals stressed him out, and that made him irritable, and realizing he was irritable with _the man who had saved the world and allowed him to take credit for it_ made him ashamed, so the desperate need to appease this appetite and his own guilty conscience was constantly multiplying.

Not to mention the unexpected trouble caused by his brilliant plan of circumventing the public spectacle of taking Goku to restaurants by instead feeding him in the privacy of Satan Manor. His personal chef had had a nervous breakdown after preparing just one meal. Since then he’d had to start hiring a caterer with an order large enough for a crowd, which only started more gossip among the paparazzi. Was Mr. Satan throwing parties? But if so, whom was he inviting? So far no one had claimed to be on the guest list, and the catering trucks were the only vehicles spotted entering or leaving the manor. (They couldn’t guess that the only attendee was traveling by _teleportation_.) Was Mr. Satan just ordering food and throwing it away? Was this some kind of bizarre midlife crisis symptom? So far Mr. Satan had dodged every question about it, or made a joke like “That’s why you should never order out on an empty stomach!”, but he’d have to come up with a cover story eventually. Like he needed any more stress.

“C’mon, siddown!” Goku stood from his chair, the only one at the long, loaded table. “You bought all this, right? Y’should enjoy some of it before I eat it all.”

“Aw, no, no, I _couldn’t_ —” Mr. Satan waved his hands awkwardly. “This’s all for you, Mr. Goku! I couldn’t _dream_ of—”

“C’mon.” Goku snatched up a drumstick, waving it tantalizingly beneath the big man’s nose. He was smiling. “It’ll make ya feeeeeeel betterrrrrrr...”

Mr. Satan parted his lips to speak.

Goku popped the drumstick into Mr. Satan’s mouth.

Then Mr. Satan was chewing, and Goku was chuckling, and soon enough Mr. Satan was in the chair and digging in excitedly.

“Aw, man, did’ja get any noodle soup?” Goku put down an empty bowl with a clatter—he was still standing, dancing around the table as he ate—and plopped a full bowl down by Mr. Satan. “Good stuff! The shrimp came out real nice!”

“It’s good, it’s good!” Mr. Satan took a hearty slurp, splashing broth all over his face. Goku chuckled again. Mr. Satan chuckled, too. “ _Damn!_ The chef really brought ’er A-game!”

“An’ the stir-fry! _Mmm!_ ” Ravenous eating noises. “Chi-Chi overcooks this kinda stuff a lot cus she’s gotta keep track of so many things on the stove at once, but this—! It’s just the right texture, y’know? Did’ja get some?” Gulp. Then a double-take. “Ah, that was the last of it, oops!”

Mr. Satan let out a barking laugh. “Don’t worry ’bout it, son, I ain’t never had much taste for vegetables anyhow!” He made a snapping motion with his chopsticks, teasing. “Jus’ pass me a handful o’ pork buns ’fore you suck ’em all up, ya vacuum cleaner!”

He slapped his hand over his mouth, aghast. What kind of thing was _that_ to say to—?

“ _Haha!_ ‘Vacuum cleaner’, that’s a good one!” Crumbs sprayed across the table in Goku’s mirth—unsurprisingly, his mouth had been full. “Chi-Chi’d _love_ that! _‘Vacuum cleaner_ ’—ah, those’re the cleaning machines that, like, slurp up all the dirt, right? I’m more used to brooms an’ stuff.”

Three massive, steaming pork buns tumbled right into Mr. Satan’s still-half-full bowl of soup, and his shoulders relaxed.

“Yer a good egg, Mr. Goku,” he said, and smiled.

“Egg?” Goku glanced around excitedly. “Y’got eggs, too?”

\---

“Oh...” Chi-Chi pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You sure you’re finished, Goten, honey?”

“Yeah, Mom!” The little boy gleefully stuck his entire hand in his mouth to ensure he didn’t miss any frosting. There was, miraculously, still half a cake left on the table, along with plenty of other leftovers. “I’m sure stuffed!”

“I guess it can’t be helped. Mr. Satan’s been inviting your father over so often, and Gohan’s been dining out with his school friends...I keep making the same amount of food and having fewer mouths around to eat it...”

“Don’t worry, Mom!” Goten had already hopped to his feet, picking the empty plates out of the spread so he could cart them to the sink. “It’ll all still taste good tomorrow! An’ then you c’n sit an’ relax like you keep talkin’ about ‘stead of cookin’ all day! Cus you already cooked!”

“Hmmm...”

The idea _was_ intriguing, but Chi-Chi’s brow remained furrowed.

“Maybe we should have Grandpa over for lunch...”

\---

“Your training room.” Goku blinked at Mr. Satan mid-stretch. “You have one, right?”

“Uh...”

“I think he means the gym, Dad,” interjected Videl. She was still leisurely finishing her meal, though she had to keep a sharp eye on her pudding since Majin Buu kept trying to snatch it. He’d already scarfed down every other dessert on the table, so at least he was full enough to just pout about it, rather than getting violent.

“Videl still want?” Buu tried hopefully.

“Yes. Yes, I _do_.”

“Awwww...”

(Goku couldn’t help licking his lips.)

“Oh, yeh, that’s right, we _do_ have a gym!” Mr. Satan blurted out. Videl rolled her eyes. Mr. Satan flinched self-consciously. “Jus’ a few floors down. What, y’wanna tour of the house or somethin’?”

Goku was doing squats now. Mr. Satan’s gaze bobbed up and down with every motion. “Nah, just show me to the training roo—the gym. I could sure use a workout! If that’s all right, o’course.”

“Wait, ain’t that what you’re _not_ supposed to do right after a big meal? Exercise?” Though, it _had_ been a long time since he’d thought about that kind of thing. He didn’t say it aloud because his daughter was here, but of course his daughter had already figured it out, based on the fist carefully covering her grin. Well, at least she was smiling.

“Whaaat? Eating a whole bunch just makes me real pumped! I gotta move around, y’know? Punch some rocks, stuff like that. You know how that is, right?”

Mr. Satan didn’t. But he nodded. “Well, we’ll head on down to the gym if’n you insist. Yer the guest here, anyhow.”

“Great, thanks!” Goku rose, stretched his arms again, and turned back toward the table. “Hey, Buu, wanna come with? I’d love to spar a few rounds!”

“Mmm-mm.” Buu shook his head slowly, squinty gaze still fixed on Videl’s pudding.

“Aw’right then.” Mr. Satan clapped his hands together. “Videl, darlin’, jus’ tell the maid to clear the dishes when yer done. But no one enters the room ’til Buu’s out of it, y’hear? Don’t want anyone catchin’ a peek of—”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know.” She waved him away irritably. “Go have fun in the ‘training room’. O-oh, uh, it was nice seeing you as always, Mr. Son, sir.”

Goku smiled. “Yup. Seeya!”

Mr. Satan had meant to start a conversation in the elevator about their kids, since Videl spent so much time with Gohan at school and even babysat Goten on occasion. (“So it’s like we’re practically in-laws awready, huh?” had been the prepared joke to go along with the mock-casual worried-father probing.) But it turned out Goku had never been in an elevator before, so that wound up being the dominant topic instead. (“It’s like flying really, really slow, huh?”)

It was so easy to laugh around him. Funny how that had worked out, since just a few weeks ago Goku’s presence had made him unspeakably nervous.

“Is this it?” Goku asked, pointing to a set of double doors.

“Yep!” Mr. Satan puffed out his chest proudly. “Feast yer eyes, buddy, on the best facility money c’n buy!”

It was huge, bigger than a high school gymnasium. Full of every type of equipment a world champion martial artist might need. Exercise machines for every muscle group. Treadmill, elliptical, stepper. Lockers full of medicine balls and barbells of every size. Bars for pull-ups. Mats for sit-ups. A tournament-sized padded ring in one corner that even had bleachers set up for spectators.

“Oh,” was all Goku said. He sounded disappointed.

Mr. Satan stared at him.

Goku frowned, cocking his head to the side. “Well, it sure is a lot of stuff, I guess. Prob’ly more useful once the gravity generator is turned on, though.”

Mr. Satan stared at him.

“The... _wuh?_ ”

“Gravity generator.” Goku was blinking incredulously now. “You know, to increase the gravity.”

“Increase...increase the gravity.”

“Yeah. So you push against more resistance when you’re moving and you get stronger. You don’t have one of those?”

Mr. Satan shook his head. At least, he was 80% sure that he didn’t. He hadn’t been here in a long time except for publicity photos.

“Huh. Well, if you wore weighted clothing it’d do pretty much the same thing, I guess. Y’got any ten-ton shirts around here?”

“...Goku...you’re punkin’ me, right?”

“I’m what?”

“You’re...aw, never mind.”

Mr. Satan shook his head again, more vigorously. “Listen, I dunno about gravity and weights an’ whatnot—except the kind you lift, o’course—but this place is state-o’-the-art! Yer bound to find somethin’ you’ll like. C’mon, whaddaya wanna work? Yer hams? Yer glutes?”

Goku drooled a little. “More food already?”

“ _Haw!_ Yer a riot, pal! Naw, I mean the muscles! Whaddaya wanna train?”

“... _Me?_ ”

“Okay, but what _part_ o’ you?”

“My...” Goku screwed up his face, crossing his arms. This was clearly not something he’d ever had to think about before. “...My punches? I guess?”

“ _Now_ yer talkin’!”

Mr. Satan bustled Goku over to a punching bag. The Saiyan looked it over suspiciously.

“See, this’s where ya practice punching. It’s like—well—a bag made o’ sand or somethin’, an’ you jus’ hit it. Y’do most of yer ‘trainin’ ’ outdoors an’ stuff, y’said? So yer used to jus’ punchin’ the air or yer sparrin’ partners, right? Well, give this baby a _thwack_ an’ see how ya like it!”

Goku was still frowning. “I dunno,” he muttered, bringing his hand up to pat the bag. “It doesn’t seem like it’s—”

He barely touched it—at least, that’s what it looked like—and the chain supporting the bag _snapped,_ the heavy, heavy, _heavy_ bag itself _flying_ into the wall with a foundation-shuddering _thud_. Goku flinched, looking guilty. Mr. Satan was paralyzed. It had missed him by inches.

A flash of light.

Both men turned, startled. A servant Mr. Satan had never seen before was standing behind them with a camera. A paparazzo, it later turned out, who had snuck into the mansion to uncover the secret of the lavish catering orders.

“That was amazing!” blubbered the photographer, snapping a few more shots. Goku shielded his eyes clumsily. “Is this man one of your new disciples, Mr. Satan?”

“Why, uh—” But lying to the press was Mr. Satan’s talent, so he wasn’t tongue-tied for long. “Of _course_ he is, why else’d I have him at my house usin’ my gym?” he thundered cheerfully, wrapping an arm around Goku’s shoulder and thumping him affectionately on the chest. He had to restrain a scream. The hand that could karate-chop through a stack of bricks with hardly any trouble was stinging like hell. What was Goku even _made_ of?

Though he was obviously trying to be polite, Goku’s expression was balanced precariously between discomfort and disgust. Mr. Satan quickly changed tactics. “That—uh—tha’ is—he’s not _exactly_ one o’ my disciples. Naw, he’s—he’s jus’ such a strong guy that I thought he’d get a kick outta trainin’ with me! So I invited him over. To see th’ gym. An’ maybe get some sparrin’ in, keep us both sharp, y’know?”

Goku brightened. “Really? Are ya sure? I mean—if you’re really up for it, it might be fun to spar with you, Mr. Satan.”

“Oh, _wow!_ ” gushed the photographer, taking more pictures. “The World Champ in action—against a guy who can slap a punching bag right off the wall—this I _gotta_ see!”

...A long, uncomfortable silence.

“There’s been enough property damage fer one night,” said Mr. Satan. “Now you skedaddle on outta here ’fore I charge you with trespassin’.”

A nervous scamper of feet.

“Not _you_ , Goku.”

\---

_“Record-Breaking World Champ Hosts Punching-Bag-Breaking Upstart!”_ screamed one headline over a slightly-out-of-focus shot of Mr. Satan and Goku standing over the busted sandbag. Someone— _several_ someones—at school showed Videl, she passed it to Gohan, and he brought it home to his mom for a laugh. It went up on the fridge next to the boys’ report cards.

People always asked Mr. Satan to show off his strength. That was why the trunk of his limo was filled with phone books to tear in half. But now they were _insistent_. The punching bag candid had provided a spectacle, and the world demanded another. The old “Not today, I have a stomachache” dodge wasn’t cutting it, either, since so many doctors had offered free consultations “for the good of all humanity” to get to the—ahem—bottom of his apparent bowel troubles.

“There’s jus’ no way around it, Goku,” Mr. Satan whimpered, on the ground in another deep bow. “Please make me stronger. I can’t live a lie no more—at leas’, I wanna live _less_ of a lie so they won’t find out ‘bout the _rest_ of the lie. I’m _beggin’_ ya.”

Goku chewed thoughtfully on the apple pie Mr. Satan had brought over as a bribe. They were out in the woods of Mt. Paozu, under the impression that the ever-present reporters would never think to look for their star attraction there. This was one conversation Mr. Satan couldn’t risk being overheard.

“I mean, I _would_ ,” said Goku finally, and Mr. Satan nearly burst into tears. “But—well—it takes a long time and a lotta hard work. And I...ah...well, I mean, I guess I could train you part of the time and do my own training the rest of the time. Cus you’re not really on my level, and I don’t wanna fall behind just cus I’m _stuck_ with—oops—u-um, I—”

“Naw, naw, I get your meanin’.” Mr. Satan’s shoulders slumped, and he collapsed from the bow into just honest-to-goodness lying in the dirt. “But ain’t there any way ya could make me strong _faster?_ Cus I really need this quick, I gotta show the public somethin’ _soon_...”

“...Hmm.” Goku frowned. The idea of taking shortcuts didn’t tend to sit well with him.

“Wha’ ’bout that thing you were talkin’ about that time? When we were in th’ gym? The gravity thing?” Mr. Satan pushed himself up onto his elbows. “If I—like—if I did a couple pushups in that kinda increased gravity situation, wouldn’t that help out? At leas’ make me seem strong enough to impress the press?”

Goku had been thinking more along the lines of that strength-increasing liquid Korin had up on his tower, but perked up at this suggestion. Working out in increased gravity might be a shortcut, but at least it was a more honest way of leveling up—and, also, Mr. Satan probably wouldn’t die. (Not to mention Goku could sneak in some training for himself, too.)

“All right!” he cheered, stuffing the last of the pie into his mouth. “Let’s— _oh_.”

Mr. Satan, already halfway to his feet, staggered. “ ‘Oh’? ‘Oh’ _what?_ ”

“Umm.” Goku chewed his lip, tapping his foot agitatedly. “I mean...there was that spaceship, but...it was on Namek when it blew up, so...an’ the last time I tried to use the gravity room at Capsule Corp, Vegeta was _real_ grumpy about it...an’ Chi-Chi won’t let me ask Bulma for one I can put in our backya— _Oh!_ I know!”

Goku put one hand on Mr. Satan’s back, put the other to his own forehead, and everything _jumped_.

When Mr. Satan’s senses unscrambled, he noticed green grass, far fewer trees, and an unsettlingly pink sky. Then Goku _slammed_ him face-first into the ground. Or maybe it wasn’t Goku. But damn if it didn’t feel like someone had just dropped a stack of monster trucks on him.

“What th’—? _GOKU!_ Why—??”

Mr. Satan instinctively tried to turn and face the speaker, but he couldn’t move. Not even a twitch. The very air was a horrifically oppressive weight.

“Hey there, King Kai!”

“Oh, yes, hello—n- _no_ , wait! Goku, what are you doing here? What have you done to that poor man??”

The voice was vaguely familiar. Someone from the final confrontation with Evil Majin Buu, maybe? That or a cartoon character from Good Majin Buu’s favorite TV show.

Mr. Satan tried to wheeze out a question, but even that was too much for him. His eyes watered.

“The gravity’s _crushing_ him! He’ll be smushed like a _bug!!_ No offense, Gregory.”

“None taken, sir.”

“Mr. Satan wanted to train in heavy gravity, so I took him here! And of course I’m ready to train, too. _Mmf!_ Yeah, I missed this. I can finally get a proper workou—”

“ _Goku!!!_ ”

Something meandered into Mr. Satan’s line of vision. Some kind of...monkey? A chimp? No, it looked more like a tiny gorilla. And it had pointy ears and a little golden ring over its head because _why not_.

It sniffed at him curiously. He wanted to scream.

“Goku, this planet is the seat of power of one of the four celestial overseers of the known universe— _me!_ It’s _not_ your personal hangout! Now, I don’t mind you dropping by once in a while for old times’ sake, but you can’t just—I mean—both of you are still _alive!_ You really shouldn’t _be_ in this dimension!”

“But _you_ were here, back when _you_ were alive.”

“ _AND THAT’S ANOTHER THING_ —”

Mr. Satan hardly even had the strength to blink. His eyes just kept tearing up. Thank God no reporters were here to see him—he hoped—sprawled on the ground, apparently crying at the sight of a little monkey.

The monkey threaded its fingers into Mr. Satan’s thick, curly hair and began to play with it.

“— _forgave_ you and all, um, since it obviously saved the lives of billions of people in my jurisdiction—but still—gaaah, I just got this planet _fixed_ and you’re the whole reason it blew up in the _first place—_ ”

“Oh. You’re really still broken up about that?”

“Of course I—”

A very long pause.

“Buh...‘b-broken...up’...?”

A snort.

“ _AHAHAHAHAA!!_ AAAAAGH! T-TOO _SOON_ , GOKU, TOO— _AHAHAHAHAH! AHAHA!!_ AAARGH! I’M S-STILL MAD AT YOU ABOU— _AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAHHH!!!_ ”

_Is this how the mighty Mr. Satan dies?_ he couldn’t help but wonder. Death by a stroke—or whatever had paralyzed him—on some weirdo alien planet being groomed by a weirdo alien monkey while some weirdo alien voice laughed so hard it cried.

“— _AAAHAHH!!_ O-okay, fine, I’ll let you off the h-h-hook this time.” Heavy panting, punctuated by a few more giggles and grumbles. “But you gotta take your friend and go, all right? Stop disrespecting the natural boundaries between life and death, you’re really gonna get in trouble for that one of these days.”

“Aw, geez...King Kai, do we _really—_ ”

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Goku.”

“Pffh. _Fine_.”

At last the monkey let go of Mr. Satan’s hair, scampering back a few paces and hooting excitedly. “Bye, Bubbles, Gregory,” came Goku’s voice from somewhere behind him, then, whispered a little closer into his ear, “ _I hope you at least got in a couple pushups_.”

The only response was a soft, high-pitched whine.

Then Goku’s hand was on his back again, and everything _jumped_ , and there was the Mt. Paozu forest again. Mr. Satan sucked in a mighty gasp of breath, flailed a little because apparently he _could_ again, and for the third time that day he collapsed face-first into the ground.

“Feel any different?” Goku asked politely.

“Do I _feel_ any—?” Mr. Satan sputtered, forcing his face up. He ached all over. “What’m I _s’posed_ to feel?”

“Well...I mean, we were only there a minute, but the gravity on King Kai’s world is about ten times stronger than Earth’s, maybe you _would_ feel a little more—”

“ _Ha!_ Hate to break it to ya, but I think that old bozo’s takin’ you for a ride.” It was a struggle, but Mr. Satan forced himself to sit up, slapping dirt from his clothes and wincing with every motion. “Must be some kinda paralyzin’ agent he shoots ya up with all sly-like or somethin’, that only makes it _feel_ like it’s hard to move. If it was _really_ ten times Earth’s gravity, then how was that _monkey_ scamperin’ about as easy as you please, _huh??_ ”

“Who? Bubbles?” Goku cocked his head to the side, considering. “He’s used to it, I guess. If he ever came to Earth, he could probably lift a truck or somethin’.”

There was no point in the pretense anymore. Mr. Satan let himself slump back down onto the ground.

“Great,” he muttered. “Even th’ _monkey’s_ stronger’n me.”

\---

Mr. Satan disappeared from the public eye.

It wasn’t that hard to do. He could’ve done it anytime—but despite his grumblings and worries, he truly adored the attention.

Satan Manor’s gates were barred. A ludicrously expensive force field generator prevented aircraft from getting too close. No one was allowed in or out, which irked the handful of servants, several of whom actually quit. (Though that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back—they’d been suffering for months over that bizarre pink cryptid they’d occasionally spot but could never confirm the existence of, that thing that seemed to look like a thing that had killed them once upon a time, maybe in a dream.) Videl was the lone exception, and even she had to undergo a strenuous identity-verification process before she could be let back into the Manor.

No amount of grumbling or shouting or even gentle pleading would convince her father to ease up. Mr. Satan remained locked in his room most of the time, facedown in his pillows. It was almost like he’d fallen and couldn’t push himself back up.

Videl began to take careful stock of the liquor cabinet, and all the places her dad didn’t know _she_ knew he hid other bottles. The inventory remained intact every day. He wasn’t drinking, at least. But he wasn’t really eating, either.

Only Buu could get into Mr. Satan’s room when the door was locked, liquefying his malleable body to slide under the crack beneath the door. Sometimes he’d prod or shake Mr. Satan demanding to play, more often he’d sit in the corner watching TV as if the man wasn’t there. Bee was constantly scratching at the door and whining, and if Buu was inside he’d pull the door open (not always remembering to unlock it first) and the puppy would scamper in, barking excitedly. Often Mr. Satan would find himself smushed into a cuddle sandwich between Buu and Bee, and Bee’s affectionate licks tickled his skin, and that would set Mr. Satan to laughing and he’d feel so much better and he’d leap to his feet and stride to the window and throw open the curtains and raise the blinds and look out on that beautiful, beautiful world out there—

—and see the more-curious-than-ever paparazzi camped out just outside the gate—

—and he’d wilt again.

\---

Goku sat folded almost double, his chin resting on the kitchen table. His expression was very much like a pout.

Chi-Chi kept her back to him, checking a few dishes simmering on the stove, whisking some more ingredients together in a bowl. It was still early in the afternoon, but for once there would be a full complement for dinner (Goten was at Trunks’s house but Ox King would take his place at the table) and Chi-Chi needed to get started.

Having Goku in the kitchen wasn’t new. Goku remaining at the table after lunch had ended certainly wasn’t new.

But this...

Chi-Chi mentally counted down, barely noticing that the vegetables were burning.

“You _sure_ he hasn’t called?”

She whisked harder.

“Not since the last time you asked,” she replied in her practiced Mom voice. “You would’ve heard the phone ring.”

“No, I mean, like, _before_ now. Maybe he called some other day and you forgot. Or Goten picked up the phone and didn’t tell anybody.”

“He can’t be _that_ good of a cook,” Chi-Chi grumbled under her breath. She rattled the pan with the half-blackened vegetables.

“Huh? Y’think I should go and look?”

“What? Goku, I didn’t say—”

“Thanks, Chi-Chi! Be back later!”

The pan clattered to the stove, flipping over and spilling the vegetables into the open flame.

By the time Chi-Chi whirled around, he had already vanished.

“ _GOKU!!_ ” she snapped.

The vegetables crumbled into charcoal.

\---

The bed creaked, as if a sudden weight had appeared upon it.

“You’re takin’ a _nap?_ ” blurted a voice distressingly close to Mr. Satan’s ear.

He screamed and sat up. The back of his head smacked into either a steel block or a very—ahem—strong chin, and he careened face-forward into the pillow again.

Hands grasped his shoulders—just a little too tight for comfort—and started shaking him vigorously. Mr. Satan flailed and squirmed in the grip, loosening it not by force but by the hands’ own consent, and finally he managed to turn himself onto his back.

Goku bent over him, fists now planted on either side of Mr. Satan, knees digging into the mattress. He was frowning.

“You musta’ been real busy, huh?”

Mr. Satan blinked, sweating under Goku’s intense scrutiny. “...What?”

“I mean, I’ve been rarin’ to go all this time, but Chi-Chi an’ Bulma are always on me to be more polite, so I’ve been waitin’ for you to call me up like usual.” He scrunched up his nose. “Or maybe you weren’t busy. Should I ’ve just come over anyhow? I’m no good at this kinda thing.”

“Goku, what’re...?”

Suddenly Mr. Satan snapped to attention and was a hotbed of nervous tics. Running his hands through his messy hair, pawing at his unshaven face.

“Oh. _OH!!_ Goku, I’m sorry, I shoulda’ been havin’ ya over t’ dinner like always, but I—”

Now he’d rolled onto his side, meekly drawing circles in the sheets with his finger.

“...I jus’...I ain’t been feelin’ up to much o’ anythin’ lately, y’know? After all that. Uh. Th’ thing in th’ woods. With the m-monkey.”

“What?” Now Goku was snorting back muffled laughter. “Oh, _yeah_. I was actually a little worried. I’ve never seen a grown man cry like that before.”

“Well, sorry fer havin’ _feelin’s_ ,” Mr. Satan grumbled self-consciously.

“Anyhow, dinner’d be great later, but I’m not here for that. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Goku cupped his hand around his mouth, leaning into Mr. Satan’s ear with a conspiratorial whisper.

“ _Trainiiiiiing...!_ ”

Mr. Satan gave a start, then slumped back down again. “Wouldn’ do me no good.”

“ _’Course_ it would! It ain’t _nothin’_ but good for ya!”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Goku, if even that _monkey’s_ got me beat—”

“You’re not gonna get any better if ya don’t practice. C’mon. Do it. Do it!”

“Goku, I’m _not_ in th’ _mood_ — _”_

Goku punched the mattress.

Presumably for dramatic effect. But, well, this being _Goku_ , the entire bed collapsed.

“ _Aaah!!_ Oh geez, oh geez, oh _geez!_ ” Goku flustered, extricating first himself and then Mr. Satan from the wreckage. The latter he accomplished by scooping the big man into his arms like a princess, Mr. Satan throwing his arms frantically around Goku’s shoulders for balance and holding on tight.

Then Goku’s eyes found Mr. Satan’s again and his expression turned from guilty to stern.

Mr. Satan, unable to look away, shivered.

“I’m sorry about the bed,” Goku said simply. “But I’m sick of all the excuses. Either you want it or you don’t. Just a few weeks back you were on your knees, _begging_ me, and it really seemed like you wanted it. I can help you. It’ll be hard. It’ll take time. But it’ll be _worth it_ , and you’ll thank me later. Not for what other people think of you, but for what you think of _yourself_.”

Mr. Satan swallowed.

If he’d pressed a hand to his cheek, he would have felt streaming tears. But he just shook his head excitedly, squeezing Goku in a firm hug (well, about as firmly as a plush toy can squeeze a brick wall).

“Dammit, Goku, I’ll do it! I’ll _do_ it!!”

Now Goku was grinning. “ _That’s_ the spirit!”

“But only where no one can see us, awright? Don’t wanna—!”

“No problemo,” chirped Goku.

Mr. Satan still hanging around his neck, Goku shut his eyes and searched for the kind of _chi_ he wanted. It took a while, but he found it, and with a nod to Mr. Satan he teleported them away.

The room fell to silence, save for a single, muffled, “ _Holy shit._ ”

\---

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“It’s r-really delicious, sweetie!” gulped Ox King, making a point of serving himself an extra helping. “You’ve outd-d-done yourself!”

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

A smile was stretched taut across Gohan’s face. “Yeah, mom! What h-he said!”

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

“...Pass the salad, Grandpa?”

“Oh? _Oh!_ Here ya go!”

“I’ve—eh—I’ve got a big test tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Foreign language studies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I wanna make sure to chow down. Keep up my strength so I can study. Don’t...eheh...d-don’t expect there to be anything but empty plates on the table when I’m through!”

“Uh-huh!”

“Yeah! S-so, if there’s something you wanna eat, you b-better do it now! Or I’ll suck it up like a vacuum c-cleaner!”

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

\---

Mr. Satan had said no calls, but if she didn’t take any calls then the phone would just never stop ringing, so the secretary opted to disobey. Besides, the caller ID indicated this number belonged to the boy who always wanted to talk to Videl (and the one whose calls Videl always accepted), so she notified the lady of the house and connected the call to the appropriate line.

Videl had no sooner picked up the phone than it fell from her hands, the yell was so loud and so sudden. But soon she was huddled over the receiver, reacting with annoyance out of habit and forcing herself into gentler tones once she remembered that Chi-Chi was her best friend’s mother. “I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t—listen—I see—uh-huh—mmm—yes, I can see how that— _listen_ —I’ll go—I haven’t seen him, but—my dad’s just in the next—I—I’m sorry to hear—I—I— _I’mGonnaGoGetMyDadHangOnJustASecOkayOKAY_.”

The receiver was dropped gracelessly onto the table and Videl flew down the hall.

Her dad’s bedroom door was hanging off its hinges, but that was no surprise, it had never been repaired from Majin Buu’s frequent mishandlings. The other signs of destruction in the room were more surprising. Most surprising of all was its complete lack of Mr. Satan.

“Dad?” Videl called out. It echoed back to her.

She was able to sense _chi_ , but not precisely enough to determine whose (or what’s) _chi_ she was sensing, so she followed her leads one at a time. There was Buu playing with Bee in his private suite. There was the secretary downstairs. There was one servant, another servant, and a maid who had only been hired two days ago already packing her bags.

She returned to the phone.

“No sign of Mr. Son anywhere,” she reported dutifully, then almost dropped the receiver again. “Yes, I—I’m sorry—there’s nothing I—really no idea—sorry to hear—I see—I see—uh-huh—um—I—uh—”

Videl stayed on the line as long as her stamina allowed, then finally hung up.

\---

“ _Before I knew it she was walkin’ next to me, singin’—_ ”

“ ‘Doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy dum’ ” gasped Mr. Satan, his legs already numb.

“ _Holdin’ my hand just as nat’ral as can be, singin’_ —”

“GOKU...”

Finally Mr. Satan doubled over, sweating and wheezing. Goku kept jogging in place. The bastard’s cheeks weren’t even red. Three laps up and down a mountain, and to him it was probably the same as walking down the hall to the bathroom.

It was already nighttime, hours after Goku had teleported them to a very startled green man (assuming that anywhere Piccolo hung out must be far enough from civilization to afford them some privacy) and started him on a thousand pushups. Now jogging, with the caveat that...

“Lissen, Goku—” Gasp, wheeze. Partly for survival, partly to drag out as long as possible this pause before he’d have to start moving again. “I’m a man who—” Gasp. “—d-d-don’t mind kara—” Gasp. Several gasps. “—karaok—” A fit of coughing, and Mr. Satan finally just sat on the ground. Goku frowned, disappointed.

“ _why th’ song?_ ” Mr. Satan croaked.

Goku shrugged. “Well, that’s what Master Roshi would sing for us on a light jog. Thought it might help ya keep pace or somethin’. Now when it was a real sprint—” Deep breath. “ _A li’l bit o’ Monica in my life, a li’l bit o’ Erica by my_ —”

“A ‘light jog’,” Mr. Satan whimpered.

Goku slapped him on the back. Mr. Satan saw his life flash before his eyes. “Aw, don’t be like that. Couple’a’ days o’ this an’ you’ll get used to it. That’s what training’s like! S’weird you’re so surprised by it.”

“Damn, Goku, I _done_ laps around a gym, o’ _course_ I know ’bout practice an’ buildin’ stamina an’ all that, but what _yer_ up to is jus’ plain—”

“’Kay, ’kay, we can take a break.”

A burst of light shot out of Goku’s hand and exploded into a nearby bush. Some animal Mr. Satan hadn’t even realized was there let out a shriek. Then quiet, a trail of smoke, and an overpowering smell.

Goku grinned broadly.

“Dinnertime!”

\---

A robot butler brought in Mrs. Briefs’s daily pile of subscription magazines with the morning mail. Mrs. Briefs sat down to read, recognized a face on one cover, and squeaked happy excitement. She called in the rest of the Capsule Corp family to see.

Oolong and Yamcha burst out laughing, banging their fists on the table as tears sprang to their eyes. Puar grinned uncomfortably and pretended to chuckle along. Dr. Briefs nodded and murmured with apparently detached interest. Mrs. Briefs kept smiling. Vegeta, of course, couldn’t be bothered.

Finally Bulma wandered in, lured by the loud guffaws. Wordlessly, Oolong passed the magazine to her, his sides shaking.

Bulma didn’t just laugh. She _exploded_. She _howled_ with mirth, shrieking so hard that Vegeta finally _did_ poke his head into the room out of genuine (albeit silent) concern. Bulma laughed until she couldn’t breathe, then _kept laughing_ , her whole body convulsing, dropping to her knees. She sucked in air desperately. Slowly, she began to calm down, her breathing growing more regular, her face wet from happy crying.

Then she caught sight of the magazine again and started all over.

When she finally shook off the effects (it took nearly an hour), Bulma sprinted down the street to buy up more copies from the newsstand. The place was swarming with people hoping to do the same, but it was sold out. The rest of the crowd dashed off to grocery stores, bookstores, anywhere they might find one, but Bulma went over their heads and called the publisher directly. Capsule Corp money opened a lot of doors, and Bulma soon had an armload of magazines and was off distributing them to everyone she knew.

“It can’t be real,” Krillin kept muttering, alternating with, “C- _could_ it be...?” “He didn’t seem like...” “But maybe...” “I wouldn’t have thought...” His face kept alternating between a grin and a grimace.

Number 18 snorted and bit her lip, unwilling to openly chuckle. Master Roshi was just stupefied.

Piccolo was found only by virtue of Bulma happening to spot him from her plane. He proclaimed disinterest, as expected, but his eyes couldn’t help widening in shock as she waved the magazine at him. It was snatched from her hands, he quickly scanned the entire article, then—so much for that mint-condition collector’s edition—the magazine was crumpled up and incinerated with a _chi_ blast. Then of course Piccolo had to mutter some kind of moral platitude at her before flying off to some other, more private stretch of uninhabited wasteland.

Undaunted by the lukewarm reception she’d been getting, Bulma zipped off to her final stop (though it suddenly occurred to her that Korin and Yajirobe might get a kick out of it too, or Tien and Chiaotzu if anyone could find ’em) and prepared her sales pitch.

“Chi-Chi,” she gasped between chuckles, having paged through the article again to prep herself, “you’ll _never_ guess where Goku’s popped u—”

“ _WHERE?!?_ WHERE _IS_ HE??!?”

Bulma reeled.

“Uh, I d-didn’t mean literally,” she fumbled, sweating in the face of Chi-Chi’s undisguised fury. “It’s just, um...”

The magazine was held up, and Bulma forced a smile.

“See, my m-mom got one of these with her mail, and—! I mean, you’ll h-have to read it for yourself, honestly, it’s a total _scream—_ ”

Bulma was right.

Chi-Chi.

_SCREAMED_.

\---

Because Gohan had already been flying home from his test, he passed Bulma in the air. She gave him a quick, strained smile that implied “I’m sorry” and “it was my fault” and “good luck, kiddo” all in one motion before stomping the accelerator.

Chi-Chi was in hysterics. Goten was no help. Gohan tried to calm her, but all she did was scream expletives about how he’d better use his “ENERGY-SENSING #&*$ PIECE OF _# &*$_” to find “THAT %#@*ING SON OF A _$ &#@_”, etc., etc.

He finally managed to talk her into sitting down with a cup of hastily-brewed tea when Videl arrived and Chi-Chi sprang back up again.

“ _& *$%_ THAT _#$*%_ IF I GET MY HANDS ON—”

If Videl hadn’t been wearing a similar expression to Bulma’s when she’d walked in, she’d have been wearing it now.

Videl explained. Videl apologized. It must have been the maid who’d left last night. She could’ve easily gotten into the room via the broken door.

“ _AND THEN THERE’S THE *%^#—_ ”

Well, probably there was a good explanation for that too—

“—AND YOU’RE GONNA USE YOUR %*$# ENERGY-SENSING #&*$ PIECE OF _# &*$_ TO _FIND_ THAT %#@*ING SON OF A _$ &#@_ AND—”

\---

“See?” Goku chirped, squatting by a fire. He fanned the blaze with his hand. “Don’t’cha feel better?”

Mr. Satan was half in tears, shivering and sneezing. He’d been cold since he got out of the water, and standing around in nothing but his shorts was only making him colder, but at least it was better than standing around in his soaking wet pajamas (instant teleportation means no time to change out of your Depression Outfit™). These were instead draped over a rock by the fire.

“Goku,” Mr. Satan choked, “wha’ in th’ _hell_ gave ya the i-i- _idea_ of—”

“Another o’ Master Roshi’s old trainings.” Goku was humming to himself, setting a makeshift spit up over the fire. An enormous shark was skewered on it. “A few laps ’round the ocean with a big ol’ fish on your tail— _hee!_ —’ll do you a world of good! And look! Now we’ve got lunch!”

Number One on Mr. Satan’s Get Back To Civilization list was having this “Master Roshi” sent to jail. Possible he _was_ guilty of past child abuse, or anything else, but Mr. Satan’s prime concern was his current emotional duress and it was clearly all that man’s fault.

He didn’t want to blame Goku. He liked Goku. _Honest_. The guy put a smile on his face even while voraciously chewing through his budget. Goku was only trying to help. Goku was just trying to toughen him up like he’d asked. But God—Mr. Satan sneezed tremendously, rubbing his bare arms til it hurt—was _this_ the price to pay for toughness? They couldn’t just...heft up a couple of barbells and call it a day? It had to be _wilderness survival training_ on top of _literally do more than any body is capable of and smile and say “Please, sir, may I have some more?”_

He swore.

Well, Mr. Satan could _swear_ he’d sworn. In his head. But Goku glanced up, and for a second Mr. Satan was terrified that he’d said the expletive aloud.

Then he heard it again.

It hadn’t been him.

“ _YOU %#@*ING SON OF A—!!!_ ”

“Uh-oh,” muttered Goku, the color draining out of his face.

As mind-numbingly terrified as he was of the thought of something existing that could scare _Goku_ , Mr. Satan turned and looked. A dot over the ocean growing larger every second. Three dots. One dragging a little behind a group of two. Though it was further away, Mr. Satan recognized the lone dot first, because a father always knows. It took a little longer to figure out that the others were—Goku’s son carrying his wife?

“I’M TALKING TO _YOU_ , YA HAIRY ASSWIPE!!”

She pointed directly at him.

Then she dropped from the sky.

Gohan pulled up short and flailed panickedly, not having expected her to jump. But Chi-Chi just shot like a rocket towards the beach, slamming so hard into the ground ( _feet-first!_ ) that it made an honest-to-God impact crater. Sand flew everywhere. Mr. Satan _shrieked_.

“AN’ _LOOK AT YA!!_ ” Chi-Chi roared—hoarsely, as her lungs had been getting quite a workout—as she charged. Maybe the logic behind training with a shark was sound, because Mr. Satan was _extremely_ motivated to dodge. And he was just fast enough to avoid her lashing out with—with—a _frying pan?_ “NEARLY _NUDE!!_ S’ _THAT_ WHAT FANCY-ASS CELEBRITIES ARE? _NUDISTS????_ ”

“M-m-m-m-ma’am!!” He leapt aside as the sheer force of the frying pan’s swing carved a ravine in the beach. “ _Please?_ ”

The air was thick with sand, he couldn’t stop coughing, he had to keep his streaming eyes screwed shut. Yet somehow he managed to avoid every blow. Maybe the sound tipped him off to how she was moving? He couldn’t know, and now was not the time to wonder.

“ _Mom!!_ ” Gohan gasped from somewhere.

“Chhh...Chi-Chi, _c’mon_ ,” flustered Goku.

Whatever instinct was guiding Mr. Satan’s footwork apparently wasn’t foolproof. He stepped backward _directly_ into the fire, yelped, stumbled into the roasting shark (Chi-Chi paused to beat the hell out of it), and had only just flopped backward against the rock his clothes were drying on when, instead of being able to pause and catch his breath, he had to scurry out of the way to avoid catching the frying pan. The rock shattered into smithereens.

“N-n-now _listen_ ,” Mr. Satan tried, hands up partly in pleading and mostly in self-defense. “Ma’am, I, uh, I c’n see that yer _upset—_ ”

She screeched, and the sheer force of it knocked him onto his rear.

“—but I, uh, unless we c’n talk this _through_ we won’t—I mean—maybe there’s been a _mix-up—_ ”

Chi-Chi grabbed him by the hair.

“What _mix-up?_ ” she snarled, frying pan already pulled back in a wind-up. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach—and you’re cookin’ _lunch_ with your _clothes OFF—_ ”

The swing came so fast Mr. Satan didn’t have a chance to close his eyes.

That meant he saw when—with a sudden, unnatural gust of wind—the frying pan stopped dead not an inch from his face.

That also meant he saw, in his peripherals, though he was in shock and it took him several seconds to truly _notice_ them: the camera flashes.

Goku strode over, his expression of worried concern, his hand still half in the all-fingers-together karate-chop pose he’d used to fan a cushion of air between Mr. Satan and the frying pan. There were photographers scuttling around, photographing everyone, photographing the clouds of sand still settling, the gashes in the landscape, the shattered rock. They’d been following Videl in a helicopter since she’d left the Manor, never dreaming they’d turn up such a juicy headline.

“Wow, Mr. Satan, you really ripped up the beach!” gushed a reporter, snapping several extreme close-ups. “And took a blow like that _right to the face_ without a _single_ scratch—PHEW!!”

“The woman hasn’t got a mark on her either!” another reporter swooned, focusing on the Sons. “Even with his awesome strength, he had enough control to avoid hurting her! I’ve never seen anything _like_ it!!”

Chi-Chi was sobbing uncontrollably, Goku with his arms tentatively around her in an almost-hug. He looked baffled. She just beat her fists against his chest, wailing.

“ _How?_ ”

“Chi-Chi, wouldja just tell me what—”

“ _HOW COULD YOU CHOOSE HIM INSTEAD OF ME??_ ”

“Chi-Chi, I’m _really_ sorry I forgot to come home for dinner,” Goku fumbled, “but he wanted me to—”

Fortunately for Mr. Satan’s already madly thumping heart, Goku didn’t get a chance to say anything like “teach him how to be actually strong.”

Unfortunately for Mr. Satan’s already madly thumping heart, that’s because Chi-Chi blurted out, “NOT _THAT!!_ YOU FELL IN _LOVE_ WITH HIM!”

\---

“Dad?”

It was Videl’s voice.

Mr. Satan finally snapped to.

“Videl,” he said, “I jus’ had th’ _craziest_ dream.”

Videl sighed heavily. “Dad, if it’s about the thing Mrs. Son said two seconds ago, just forget it.”

She passed him a magazine.

It was all typical exploitative tabloid stuff. Politicians caught stuffing their wallets. Paternity debates about celebrity couples.

But front and center—the cover story—was Goku, standing tall and proud, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, staring at Mr. Satan, cradled bridal-style in his arms, smiling broadly, tears running down his face.

“ _What_ ,” said Mr. Satan.

They were framed in a heart. The caption read “ _TITILLATING TITAN TRYST!_ ” Below that, in smaller letters, “ _Mr. Satan’s on top of the world—but is he on top...in BED?_ ”

“ _WHAT,_ ” said Mr. Satan.

“What’s ‘titillating’?” Goku asked. Chi-Chi started crying more loudly.

Videl had to reach over and open the magazine herself. The story included a massive photo spread of the previous afternoon—not even 24 hours ago—in Mr. Satan’s bedroom. The photos, already scandalous-looking, had been strategically rearranged to create a narrative. First, shots of Mr. Satan in Goku’s arms, Goku’s expression fierce, Mr. Satan’s vulnerable. Then shots of Mr. Satan sprawled on the bed (face-down _and_ face-up) with Goku straddled above him. Then, finally, shots of the destroyed bed.

(It also included a transcript of the dialogue between the two, which, weirdly enough, was completely unaltered.)

Later, when he was composed enough to read the article more thoroughly, Mr. Satan would notice the little details that held the whole situation together. The reporter had snuck into the mansion—hired behind his back by his secretary, who desperately needed to fill the holes in the dropping-like-flies staff—in order to find out the secret of Mr. Satan’s sudden isolation. She hadn’t learned much on that point, just that he seemed extremely depressed, but _had_ gleaned from one of the few remaining servants that the mysterious catering orders had been for the benefit of entertaining a single guest. When she’d happened to come snooping by Mr. Satan’s busted-down bedroom door, she’d recognized Goku from the previous paparazzo shots with the punching bag and at the restaurant. With all that circumstantial evidence, it became clear that Mr. Satan had been embroiled in a passionate affair with a martial-artist-slash-eating-competition-professional, broke up after a clumsy attempt at intimacy (“just a few weeks back you were on your knees, _begging_ me, and it really seemed like you wanted it”), and a sappy happily-ever-after.

In the moment, though, all Mr. Satan could really take in were the photos, “TRYST”, and “BED”. His brain just did not have room for anything else.

“Wait, we’re like _husbands?_ ” Goku exclaimed, tearing his eyes from the magazine to stare at Mr. Satan. “Is this _true??_ ”

“ _GOKU!!_ ” Mr. Satan snapped, incredulous. “Of _course_ it’s n—”

“It _is_ true, then!!” cried a reporter, shoving a microphone into his face. Mr. Satan awkwardly tried to bat it away. “All those expensive _meals_ you bought him—you’re his _sugar daddy!!_ ”

“I AM _NOT!!_ ” Mr. Satan stamped his foot. “ ‘Sugar daddy’? That’s more like _Buu!_ ”

It was out before he could stop himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth too late.

Another reporter scowled. “Well,” he scoffed, “it certainly doesn’t _sound_ like ‘boo’. It sounds like _scandal!!_ ”

“What’s a sugar daddy?” demanded Goku. Chi-Chi, whose tears had only just dried, started sobbing again.

Mr. Satan snorted in a deep breath. There was no time to panic. He stepped forward. “I’m _tellin’_ ya, those photos were taken _outta context_. I, uh, I see where yer all confused. An’ I’m—uh—well—I’m _flattered_ y’all seem t’ think I’m handsome ’nough to lure men from their wives—”

“ _Homewrecker!!!_ ” Chi-Chi wailed. She was sobbing into Gohan’s arms now, having pushed Goku away. Her son just stood awkwardly as the reporters swarmed to their new target.

“Did you plan this all along?” she wept. Mr. Satan was too paralyzed with fear to intervene. “Is that why you went along when I asked you to take him out to lunch? I...darling, I’m so s-s- _sorry_ , I didn’t...I only sent you off because of the _grocery bill_ , I just couldn’t a- _afford_ to feed you _and_ the boys on our budget, I...I _love_ cooking for you, dear, I _love_ watching you eat my food, I _love_ you, I _love_ you, p-p- _please_ don’t leave meeeeeee...”

She’d thrust herself back into Goku’s arms at that, while the reporters’ cameras flashed.

“Aw, honey,” Goku mumbled, smiling awkwardly. “I love your cooking too.”

Mr. Satan cleared his throat.

All eyes turned to him.

“Let’s...let’s give these fine folks their privacy,” he announced as authoritatively as he could muster, beckoning the reporters toward him. Goku, Chi-Chi and Gohan were already huddled together in hushed conversation, involving lots of sweeping hand gestures. Mr. Satan herded the crowd along down the beach, though the reporters followed only reluctantly (and under the implied threat in Videl’s glare). “Jus’ come with me an I’ll clear everythin’ right up, includin’ that—uh—that weird li’l misunderstandin’ on what goes on ’twixt my sheets. But first...”

He posed triumphantly over a deep gouge in the beach.

“How’s’about we talk about my _earth-shatterin’ strength?!_ ”

\---

Once again, by flexing next to someone else’s handiwork, Mr. Satan convinced the world of his power. And his generosity of spirit, since he’d left the angry-but-obviously-fragile housewife so completely unharmed, and renounced his claim on her husband.

The rumor, though frantically explained away, refused to be dispelled. The fact that he’d been wearing nothing but his underwear on the beach certainly hadn’t helped.

And since a polite correction of scandalous information is boring anyway, the magazines focused on a new angle: the housewife. Her heart-wrenching story of offering her husband ~~’s body~~ to the World Champion because she was too poor to feed him herself? The public—ahem—ate it up. So much so, in fact, that while Mr. Satan had used all his resources to prevent the press from finding out where the Son family lived, readers had sent in money from all over the country, addressed to her care of Mr. Satan, or care of the magazine and forwarded to Mr. Satan (and his daughter had ensured that it _all_ got forwarded).

“An’ that’s what’s in this briefcase here right now,” Mr. Satan said, on his face in a deep bow that teetered between humility and pleading. “All th’ money, from housewives tha’ sympathize with ya, an’ folks who just plain felt sorry for ya—an’ from me too, since I c’d finally get more cash outta the bank without any suspicions. Cus I finally paid off the blonde chick, an’ it’s been months now since them awful articles appeared, an’...”

Chi-Chi stood on the lawn with her arms crossed.

Inside, the house was a ruckus. It sounded like the whole Son family was assembled at the dinner table, father, grandfather, two half-Saiyan boys. Buu, completely undisguised, was banging around in there too. If there was one thing to be said for all this paparazzo nonsense, it was that it’d distracted anyone from finding out about the pink powerhouse until the memories of his deeds could be erased. (Mr. Satan had tucked an extra wad of cash into the briefcase for that.)

“I brought th’ magazines in case ya hadn’t seen ’em,” Mr. Satan went on, placing a tote bag on top of the briefcase. “With the story ’bout you, an’ the ones ’bout people sendin’ in all the money. They’re total trash, o’course. Not worth dignifyin’ by readin’ ’em. But jus’ in case y’didn’t believe me.”

Chi-Chi grunted noncommittally.

“I truly am sorry for all th’ trouble I caused. I jus’ wanted to thank ol’ Goku, y’know? Well, keep ’is mouth shut, at first. But...he’s a real good egg. Yer a lucky lady, Mrs. Son, I truly mean that. An’ he’s lucky t’have you too.”

Chi-Chi let out a deep sigh.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she mumbled.

Mr. Satan nodded, slowly rising to his feet. He slapped dirt off his knees. “Anyhow, tell Goku I said ‘hi’, and ‘thanks’ an’ all that. Can’t really be seen with him in public for a year or two, o’course, ’til this thing blows over. Don’t wanna cause ya more trouble. I’ll just be headin’ out now. _BUU—!_ ”

“Hmph.”

Chi-Chi kicked the tote bag over, spilling its contents into the dirt, and swept the briefcase into her arms. This brought her just under Mr. Satan’s nose, so close he could smell her shampoo.

He swallowed. Not just because of how viciously she’d been attacking him the last time he’d seen her. The top of Chi-Chi’s head barely reached his chin, and yet with her eyes alone she was still able to look down on him.

“Tell him yourself,” Chi-Chi said imperiously, turning on her heel and stalking toward her house.

Mr. Satan merely gaped.

She paused at the doorway.

“And why don’t you grab a plate while you’re at it. You’re just in time for dinner.”

 


End file.
